Clapping It On
by Pyrasaur
Summary: Gant celebrates his release from prison with a remarkably nonaquatic party.


It wasn't what Maya thought a getting-out-of-jail party would be like -- a black-sleek nightclub with a couple of bored patrons slouching onto tables, and a velvet-suited singer butchering the classics. But then again, she had never been to a getting-out-of-jail party before.

"So," Mr. Gant said, and smiled an utterly pleased smile, "Do you know when Wrighto is showing up, Mayzie, my dear?"

Maya was now the proud owner of the cutest nickname in the history of _everything_ -- she nearly bubbled over with glee, and took another gulp of her sunny-sweet drink.

"He might not be coming, actually... I think he's busy." That would explain why she found the invitation in the trash can -- Nick could be such a birdbrain when he was buried in paperwork.

"What a shame!"

His smile fading the faintest bit, Mr. Gant leaned back in his chair, and tugged at his nuclear-orange necktie. It actually looked really striking with his purple shirt, Maya would have to try out the look sometime when she wasn't in her robes.

"I was looking forward to seeing old Wrighto again," Mr. Gant wondered, "But I suppose a lot has happened in the time I've been gone. Mayzie, how is your drink?"

"Oh!" Maya shook her glass, and the ice rattled wetly. "It's great, thanks! What is this?"

Mr. Gant stared. For an awfully long time.

"I wouldn't know, my dear," he finally smiled, "I asked the bartender for something appropriate for a young lady."

Maybe it was one of those Dakota Fannings or whatever they were called. Maya gulped it contemplatively.

"Um ..."

Pearl edged a little farther around Mr. Gant, gosh, how long had she been waiting there?

"Oh, the little one," Mr. Gant wondered, and blinked down at her. "What is it?"

Chewing her thumbnail -- she looked even smaller than she _was_ -- Pearl worried, "Mr. Ud-jee is going up next, he asked me to tell you, Mr. Gant ..."

"Oho!" Gant clapped delight, making Pearl flinch with each booming beat of his gloved hands. "Wonderful! Oh, if you'll excuse me!" He stood, chair scraping. "I believe I see an old friend over there, I won't be long, girls!"

The two of them watched Mr. Gant's tall, square-shouldered form weave between the tables. And Pearl slipped into the seat beside Maya; she watched Mr. Gant's empty chair like it might bite if provoked.

"Should we be here, Mystic Maya ...?"

Jabbing her straw into the ice -- there _had_ to be more juice in there somewhere-- Maya looked to Pearl. "Sure, why not?"

"Mr. Nick doesn't know ..."

"He got that industrial-sized jug of bathroom cleaner on sale yesterday, Pearly. We'll be back before he can see his reflection in the toilet bowl!"

Pearl's eyes lingered on the drink, slow doomsday gathering in the air around her. "You're not _drinking_, are you, Mystic Maya?"

"What? No!" Maya flailed reassuringly, and knocked over the glass but caught it mid-tip. "No, this is just juice, Pearly, they call it a Judy Garland or something."

Another pensive thumbnail-chew. "Juice? Named after people ...?"

"Maya, Pearl."

Maya knew that stuffy, far-more-important-things-to-be-doing-right-now flourish of a voice anywhere.

"Mr. Edgeworth!" She turned in her chair, and beamed up at him. "Hi!"

The guy never changed: ruffles and bright suit and a glower like he was trying to bend spoons with his mind.

"Are you here for Damon Gant's celebration?" he grated.

"We sure are," Maya chirped, and swung her feet, "It's about time people started showing up!"

The glower deepened.

"I-Is something wrong, Mr. Eh-jii-worth?"

He glanced to Pearl, and softened to frowning uncertainty.

"Gant is not a man to be trusted. I'd recommend leaving now, but if you must--"

"_Worthy_!"

Mr. Edgeworth tensed like somebody had just dumped ice down his shorts -- Mr. Gant clapped a big friendly hand onto his shoulder.

"Wonderful to see you again, my boy! Have you been swimming? We never did go swimming together!"

"_Gant_," Mr. Edgeworth hissed, "I don't _swim._"

Another one of those dragging-long pauses. Maya straw-slurped at the last of her Mary-Kate Olsen and watched the velvet-suited singer flounce offstage.

"Worthy," and Mr. Gant tugged at his hair, and smiled sweetly, "Everyone swims sometimes. It's simply a matter of persuasion, I'm sure you understand."

"These are yours." Mr. Edgeworth stuffed a handful of manilla folders into Gant's hand in place of his shoulder -- the far wall of the club must have done something awful to deserve that look. "And they are the only reason I've come, and now I am _leaving._"

"Ho ho, always mixing business with pleasure, Worthy!" Mr. Gant leafed quickly through the folders. "You really should learn to take it easy, lighten up a little! Our very own Udgey has written a few jokes for the occasion--"

He was already stalking away, but Mr. Edgeworth quickened his pace and vanished.

And with a thoughtful hum, Mr. Gant resettled in his chair -- Pearl squirmed.

"He never did have much of a sense of humour, our Worthy. Tax reports?" Gant clapped twice, merrily. "Tax reports at a getting-out-of-jail party, ho ho ho, why am I not surprised? Paperwork is a dreadful nuisance, isn't it, Mayzie?"

No, really, that nickname was cute like _puppies._

"I guess so," Maya chirped, "I don't do any. But you'd think it's torture, the way Nick lets his pile up! Oh, did you find your friend, Mr. Gant?"

He stared. Kind of weird, how he did that all the time.

"Why, no," Mr. Gant smiled, "I mistook an overly broad-shouldered women for the good Officer Marshall. Actually, I haven't seen anyone from the police department yet, I do hope they're on their way!"

"Isn't fashionably late usually only a few minutes?" Maya scratched the side of her head. "Unless they're going for Paris chic."

A sudden feedback squeal rang through the club -- once the shudders stopped raking down Maya's back, she looked past Mr. Gant to the stage, and there was the Judge fumbling with his microphone. Apparently, he wore his black court robes everywhere, which sort of made sense for a party because they were practically a tuxedo.

"Oh, there, I think that's it," the Judge wondered, his voice filling the room tinny, "I don't think this is a microphone -- it's a might-not-rophone!"

Dead silence -- at least, it would have been without Mr. Gant's booming laughter and clapping.

"Mystic Maya?" Pearl murmured, her voice small with worry, "Was that a joke?"

"...Not really, Pearly."

"Well," the Judge went on, looking around like he was sightseeing, "I'm glad to see everyone here tonight! Humour is now in session!"

He paused expectantly. And tapped the microphone, for some ringing feedback that seemed to satisfy him.

"I've never liked airplanes much. Why, one time I was on board a flight and they had those little packages of peanuts--"

"Maya, Pearls," came a familiar hiss, "What are you _doing_ here?!"

She looked to Nick -- he stooped between the two of them and raked a hand through his spikes.

"Just enjoying the party," Maya replied. She stirred the ice in her glass -- she ought to get another one, whatever they were called, Drew Barrymore, maybe.

"Sorry, Mr. Nick," Pearly whimpered, "W-We didn't think it was bad ..."

"--And so I said to the stewardess, that's not my soda, but you can have it!"

Maya and Pearl definitely weren't the bad ones in the room. Mr. Gant laughed and clapped some more anyway, and wiped at his eyes with a knuckle.

With the _I'd rather be waxing Sal Manella's back right now_ look creeping over his face, Nick muttered, "There's a reason I threw out that invitation, Maya, and not just ... because ... Please tell me the Judge isn't telling jokes."

"Okay, the Judge isn't telling jokes," Maya deadpanned.

Nick rubbed his face with all the long-suffering woe he could manage. "Look, the taxi's waiting, can we just go? I'll explain Gant's case more _thoroughly _we get back."

The case with the science girl and the crazy lunchlady and Detective Gumshoe's cute mascot, right? Maya hopped to her feet, sighing heavily and taking Pearly's hand.

"Fine, Nick, if you're so sure this party's a bust."

"I don't know," the Judge began, "Why they're called lawyers. How does one lawy, anyway?"

"...," Nick declared, and turned to leave.

"Yeah," Maya said, and glanced to Mr. Gant but he was absorbed in the show, clapping fit to bring the rafters down, "I guess you're right."

"Do I want to know what you were drinking?"

What was everyone around here, the drink police? Maya rolled her eyes, stepping around an empty chair. "It was just a ... whatever they're called, the drink named after the actress."

"Shirley Temple?"

"...Who?"

Nick didn't answer her, as usual, and the three of them climbed into the cab -- it smelled funny and the seats were threadbare, like all cabs.

"I don't think," Pearly decided, chewing her nail, "I want to go swimming anymore."


End file.
